she saw the face God had meant Ruby to have, and remembered it so always.
Mrs. Gillis called Anne aside into a vacant room before the funeral procession left the house, and gave her a small packet.
“I want you to have this,” she sobbed. “Ruby would have liked you to have it. It’s the embroidered centerpiece she was working at. It isn’t quite finished—the needle is sticking in it just where her poor little fingers put it the last time she laid it down, the afternoon before she died.”
“There’s always a piece of unfinished work left,” said Mrs. Lynde, with tears in her eyes. “But I suppose there’s always some one to finish it.”
“How difficult it is to realize that one we have always known can really be dead,” said Anne, as she and Diana walked home. “Ruby is the first of our schoolmates to go. One by one, sooner or later, all the rest of us must follow.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Diana uncomfortably. She did not want to talk of that. She would have preferred to have discussed the details of the funeral—the splendid white velvet casket Mr. Gillis had insisted on having for Ruby—“the Gillises must always make a splurge, even at funerals,” quoth Mrs. Rachel Lynde—Herb Spencer’s sad face, the uncontrolled, hysteric grief of one of Ruby’s sisters—but Anne would not talk of these things. She seemed wrapped in a reverie in which Diana felt lonesomely that she had neither lot nor part.
